Micheal von Shelb sat slumped in his high-backed chair, the ornate carvings of the wood pressing into his back as if mocking his predicament. The warm glow of the table lamp illuminated the papers and scattered tools on his desk, but its golden light failed to dispel the shadows of doubt creeping into his mind.
His sharp blue eyes were fixed blankly on the lamp's soft glow, his thoughts consumed by the absurdity of his latest challenge.
"The man-bra," he muttered, the words barely audible over the soft crackle of the fireplace. A self-deprecating chuckle escaped his lips, tinged with frustration and disbelief. Hours earlier, he had declared it with bravado—a playful jab at the ridiculous societal expectations that seemed to define his family. Now, it felt like a weight dragging him deeper into humiliation.
The scene replayed vividly in his mind: Duke Louis von Shelb, his imposing figure framed by the grand study's mahogany walls, gazing down at Micheal with thinly veiled disapproval. His father's words, cutting and sharp, echoed once more.
"Ah, yes. Perhaps the boy who cannot stomach a sword and avoids horseback riding might find his destiny in undergarments."
The words had stung, their condescension palpable. Micheal's response had been equally bold and absurd—a pointed defiance of the Duke's expectations.
He could still see Reginald, the family's ever-stoic butler, standing quietly in the corner, his lips twitching in what could only be described as a restrained smirk.
"Fine," Micheal had said with mock grandeur. "The man-bra will revolutionize society."
At the time, it felt like a moment of triumph, a clever retort to his father's expectations. Yet now, seated alone in his dimly lit study, it felt more like folly. He leaned back, staring at the intricate plasterwork on the ceiling, its vines and flowers weaving a silent tapestry of mockery.
A faint chime interrupted his brooding.
The sleek screen of his communication tablet—the com-tab—lit up with notifications, its blue-white glow cutting through the warm amber light of the room.
Micheal picked it up, scrolling through the messages in their group chat.
Erwin Calden: "Riding club at noon tomorrow. Don't be late, Shelb. You need the fresh air!"
Lysander Valmont: "Let us hope Micheal can at least pretend to enjoy himself for once."
Rupert Greystone: "He's probably sketching plans for a mechanical horse instead."
Micheal von Shelb: "Horseless carriage, thank you very much."
The banter brought a faint smile to Micheal's lips, but his amusement was short-lived. His friends' teasing about the riding club meeting at noon struck a nerve, dredging up memories of his father's insistence on horseback training. Micheal had loathed horses ever since—his aversion bordering on hatred.
It was this distaste that had driven him to invent the horseless carriage, a vehicle powered by mana stones, as an alternative to traditional transport.
The prototypes were already in limited use on the estate, their sleek forms gliding smoothly over cobblestone paths. Yet the endeavor was far from complete. Training drivers had proven unexpectedly challenging, and his plans for large-scale implementation—and the coveted commercial patent—remained in limbo.
He set the com-tab aside, its notifications continuing to ping with messages he no longer read. Instead, his thoughts turned inward, drawn irresistibly to the library of novels in his dreams. The com-tab itself, once heralded as the greatest invention of the Healian Empire, had been revealed as a creation of a transmigrator—a soul from another world who had adapted the "mobile phone" from their original realm into this one.
Micheal leaned forward, his curiosity igniting like a spark to dry kindling. His dreams, disturbingly accurate, were tethered to a boundless repository of stories, each revealing hidden facets of his world.
Testing his newfound ability, he closed his eyes and summoned his mother's image, Duchess Eleanor von Shelb, into focus. Fragments of her story surfaced with stunning clarity. She had been a prime candidate for crown princess, celebrated for her beauty and poise. Yet, beneath her polished exterior, she had harbored unspoken feelings for Raphael Valoria, now Emperor and Micheal's father-in-law. However, there was no novel where Eleanor was the central character.
Micheal shifted in his chair, uneasy yet riveted. Eleanor had set aside her feelings upon witnessing the joy shared by Raphael and Celeste Valoria, the "wonder child" destined to be Empress. Micheal's lips quirked in dry amusement; Eleanor had even aided Raphael in courting Celeste.
"Wonderful," he muttered. "My mother had a crush on my father-in-law."
The revelations spiraled further. His father, Louis, had served as Raphael's guard companion during his youth, a role thrust upon him by the former Emperor. Seeing Eleanor's quiet affection for Raphael, Louis had intervened to spare her humiliation. His grand proposal at the Harvest Festival Ball had not only salvaged her honor but elevated her to Duchess.
"Father, the seasoned side character," Micheal murmured, shaking his head.
The library revealed Louis as a perpetual supporting figure, pivotal yet relegated to the background. Surprisingly, there was no novel where Louis starred as the protagonist either.
Micheal delved deeper, uncovering unsettling discrepancies.
The Healing Snow, chronicling the Emperor's life, painted a facade of love and happiness. Yet Micheal knew the brutal truth: Celeste the late Empress had died young, their child was swapped at birth, and Raphael had withered into a hollow shadow of himself.
The realization struck him like a thunderclap. Novel endings could change in reality.
"I'll change the ending," he vowed. "For Magda. For me."
He paused, contemplating the weight of this ability. Each use left him drained, vulnerable to revelations he might wish to unsee. The vision earlier today had nearly undone him in Magda's chambers. He resolved to wield this gift sparingly.
Yet, his thoughts lingered on Magda. How had their bond grown to the point of imagining a future as parents in just a few months? They were still akin to strangers now.
Her death would occur in 11 months, and in his vision, Magda had seemed well along in her pregnancy. If that were true, their children would be conceived within the next 5-6 months.
The blush crept up his neck as he pondered the reality of what it took to create life. He was twenty-one years old, but the thought was surreal. Was Magda's willingness to be with him born out of pity for the exiled, handicapped man he had been? Or was it something deeper?
Micheal's thoughts spiraled chaotically, pulling him into an unfamiliar tangle of doubt and hope, until they stilled at an unexpected realization: Magda cared for him. That much was clear. His heart raced, warmth spreading to his ears as the absurdity of it hit him.
He grinned, wide and unrestrained, like a schoolboy discovering that his secret crush might feel the same way.
Exhaustion finally overtook him as he leaned back in his chair, the glow of the lamp blurring into the edges of his thoughts. His head tilted forward, sleep claiming him amidst the quiet hum of his inventions and the soft flicker of the fireplace. The restless genius, buoyed by newfound hope, drifted into dreams of rewriting his fate.
The room fell silent save for the faint flicker of the fireplace, a testament to the restless genius who dreamed of rewriting his fate.
Micheal stirred awake, his neck stiff and his back protesting against the poor posture of having fallen asleep at his desk.
The faint golden light of dawn streamed through the ornate curtains, casting a soft glow on his cluttered workspace. The com-tab lay on the floor, its screen still illuminated. He picked it up, wincing as he straightened.
The device displayed an avalanche of messages from his friends, their cheerful banter filling the screen. They were discussing their meeting at the riding club, the tone of their texts ranging from excitement to friendly jabs.
Micheal groaned, dragging a hand down his face.
"Of course, they didn't forget," he muttered, his voice hoarse from sleep. He scrolled through the messages, noting Lysander's reserved acceptance, Erwin's sarcastic commentary about Micheal's likely tardiness, and Rupert's confident prediction that Micheal would somehow charm his way into arriving late.
Stretching his stiff limbs, he rose and shuffled toward his wardrobe. He selected a crisp, embroidered white shirt paired with a meticulously tailored aristocratic suit in deep navy. The sapphire cufflinks glinted in the morning light, a perfect match for his piercing blue eyes.
As he examined himself in the mirror, he murmured dryly, "Dressed to impress for a club I'd rather avoid."
Before he could button his cuffs, a whirlwind burst into the room in the form of Barnaby Trent, his indefatigable personal butler.
"Master Micheal! You're running late!" Barnaby's voice carried both a reprimand and an air of absolute authority. His green eyes sparkled with determination, and his tousled chestnut-brown hair only added to the chaotic energy he exuded.
Micheal raised an eyebrow, bemused. "Good morning to you too, Barnaby. Did you sleep, or were you lying in wait like a hawk?"
"No time for wit, Master Micheal!" Barnaby announced, already bustling around the room with the speed and precision of a seasoned battlefield commander. "Punctuality is the hallmark of nobility!"
Micheal chuckled as Barnaby descended upon him, brushing his platinum blonde hair into loose waves with alarming efficiency. "Must you always attack my mornings like a hurricane?"
"It's my solemn duty," Barnaby quipped, tying Micheal's cravat with a flourish that would make a magician jealous. "And you, sir, are a tornado of procrastination. Someone must restore order."Before Micheal could protest further, Barnaby's strength became as evident as his speed. In a seamless motion, he hoisted Micheal's arm over his shoulder and practically half-carried him toward the door with the ease of someone moving a feather.
"Barnaby! Let me walk on my own!" Micheal exclaimed, caught between laughter and exasperation.
"There's no time for that, Master Micheal!" Barnaby declared, his voice resolute as he maneuvered them both with the force of a maelstrom. His wiry frame belied an almost superhuman strength, and Micheal found himself swept along like cargo in the tide.
"Honestly, Barnaby, it's like being carried by a runaway horse," Micheal muttered.
Barnaby grinned, unbothered by his master's complaints. "Well, sir, perhaps if you enjoyed horses more, punctuality wouldn't be such a challenge!"
Micheal rolled his eyes. "Touché."
As they approached the sleek, horseless carriage waiting in the courtyard, Micheal allowed himself a moment of pride. The mana-stone-powered vehicle gleamed under the morning sun, a testament to his own ingenuity.
The carriage hummed softly as it powered up, its intricate design blending utility with elegance. Barnaby all but hoisted Micheal inside before climbing in himself, his unrelenting energy undiminished.
"To the riding club!" Barnaby announced to the driver, who saluted with a grin and set the vehicle into motion.